What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  “Have ye kissed many frogs, then?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  His mouth tightened at that, and she filed that tidbit away for use later. They rode awhile in silence until he broke it again. “Tell me about Haven.”

  Her gaze slid to his, wondering at his interest, but he seemed truly curious. “I founded it after I reached my majority, when a friend was…hurt by a man and left pregnant and alone.” A twinge of pain made her insides cramp.

  “A lady?”

  Imogen shook her head. “She was a governess, though not all of them are working-class. Some are ladies as well.”

  “You call a governess friend?”

  Imogen was not ashamed of it. Emma wasn’t titled and was her best friend in the world. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She felt his thoughtful eyes on her and exhaled a breath. She should not have said so much. Nobility did not mix with commoners, though she did often enough.

  “How do ye finance it?”

  She bit her lip, knowing she was giving him ammunition to use against her. “My inheritance. And a few private investors.”

  “I see.”

  Silence grew once more between them as they trotted down the lane, and Imogen was grateful for it. Talking about Haven made her feel heartsick. And she missed Emma. She missed the girls and their chatter. Her sudden melancholy was interrupted by a slowing barouche. Imogen clenched her teeth.

  “Yer Grace,” Lady Reid chirped as she stepped down from her carriage. She was dressed in a wine-colored habit that was so tight it was a wonder she could even breathe.

  “So good to see ye out and about,” Grace said. “And looking so hale.”

  Imogen nearly rolled her eyes at the woman’s transparency.

  “Lady Reid,” Ronan said. “Good to see ye as well.”

  Grace smiled widely, her eyes never once acknowledging Imogen.

  “I’m having a small gathering tomorrow evening. I would love it if ye could come.” She reluctantly cut her stare toward Imogen, the smile as bright as it was fake. “Ye as well, of course.”

  Temperance chose that moment to rear and make it known that she was anxious to get going. Though Imogen could have easily reined her in, she allowed the horse to have her little spurt of temper, enjoying the moment when Grace hurriedly stepped back with a hiss as Temperance’s hoof landed a little too close for comfort.

  “Control yer horse,” she snarled.

  “Apologies, Lady Reid,” Imogen said sweetly before steering her mare around the carriage. “Sometimes she can be a right witch. Especially when needlessly provoked.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed at the perceived slight, but Imogen held her gaze with glacial poise. She could feel the weight of Ronan’s stare but did not back down.

  Finally, Grace tossed her head and turned to Ronan. “Tomorrow, then?”

  “Thank you for the invitation, Lady Reid, but we have plans,” Imogen said, glancing back at Ronan’s inscrutable face. “Don’t we, dearest?”

  A smile played on his lips. “I’d forgotten, but it appears we do. Perhaps another time, Lady Reid.”

  As they said their goodbyes and Imogen registered the hatred in the other woman’s eyes, she knew she’d made a formidable enemy. Lady Reid acted as though Ronan was hers. The silly thing was, she could have the man. In fact, she was welcome to him, once Imogen had gotten what she wanted. Broken-hearted Ronan Maclaren would be on a platter, desperate to be consoled. All the woman had to do was wait.

  But Imogen had the feeling that Lady Reid was not patient in the least.

  And that did not bode well for Imogen’s plans.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Vickers finished with the knot in Ronan’s cravat and gave his lapels an extra, if unnecessary tug. His valet then smoothed each shoulder of the dinner jacket, masking his wordless judgment with normal, dutiful attentiveness.

  Excellent. Now even his damned valet was peeved at him.

  “You appear ready, Your Grace,” Vickers said without his usual marked enthusiasm for his work.

  “I take it ye dunnae agree with my decision, either.”

  Vickers busied himself in Ronan’s wardrobe. “It is not my place to speculate on the matter, Your Grace.”

  The matter was that Ronan had received a second invitation to Lady Reid’s party, this one handwritten and delivered a few hours after his outing to Hyde Park with Imogen. After several minutes of consideration, he’d sent a reply that he and his fiancée would happily attend after all.

  Joining Grace’s social gathering was the last thing Ronan wanted to do this evening, but after he and Imogen had returned to Dunrannoch House the afternoon before, each of them smiling widely and laughing over Temperance’s saucy attitude toward Lady Reid, he’d known it was the best move he could possibly make.

  He’d had far too much fun with Imogen, and they hadn’t even kissed. Hyde Park had been chaste and public and nothing at all like their encounter in the opera box, and yet he’d found himself enjoying his time with her, hooked onto her every word and trying to anticipate what the devil she was going to say or do next. Imogen—at least the woman she had transformed into, the one she claimed was the real Imogen—fascinated him. And when Ronan had left her in the foyer of Dunrannoch House yesterday, his cheeks aching from the grin still plastered there, he knew he’d entered dangerous territory.

  He shook his head to clear it. He’d let what was below his waist dictate his behavior in the last few days. He knew that Imogen wanted to marry as much as he did, and now, all of a sudden, she’d changed her strategy. He knew it had something to do with Silas Calder, but it would serve him well to remember that she did not want marriage. So why the seduction? Why the flirtation and the charm? What was her game?

  And now, turning his entire household against him?

  “The staff has been rather frosty today, Vickers,” Ronan said as he checked his appearance once more in the mirror. No dress kilt or Highlander garb this evening. He wore black superfine, a dove-white waistcoat, and looked every inch the English gentleman.

  “Hilda has reported that her mistress is, in her words, devastated and humiliated.” His valet cleared his throat and kept his back to Ronan as he tidied up the room.

  Devastated and humiliated his arse. She knew this was a competition as well as he, and she’d been outplayed. Turning his servants on him was simply her retaliation. Though it didn’t sit well with him how readily they had all rushed to her defense. Hell, she wasn’t lady of the house yet. And by God, she wouldn’t be.

  He could not let the charming Imogen from Hyde Park, the one who had let down her defenses just far enough to tempt him closer, manipulate him as well as she had his household. This was combat…a pitting of wits, a means to an end. Marriage was out of the question. He didn’t love Imogen, and she didn’t love him.

  Not that love was a requirement for most aristocratic marriages, though it seemed to be the Maclaren way. He thought of his parents and his brothers and sisters. Finlay and Evan would argue otherwise, but Sorcha, Makenna, and Niall had all found someone worth fighting for. His jaw tensed at the thought of Imogen, desire spiking in his veins, and he scowled. Lust and love were not the same thing.

  “It is a social function,” he growled.

  “As you say, Your Grace.”

  Lavishing attention on Grace would, he hoped, be enough to drive Imogen to take action and end the betrothal. He hated the idea of cheapening what had happened between them at the opera or even in Hyde Park, but hell…for all Ronan knew, Imogen might have been performing some strategy of hers as well.

  The thought felt wrong. Like a betrayal of sorts. He knew it wasn’t true and cursed himself for being such an arse. But that’s what he had to be, unless he wanted to return home with a wife who didn’t want anything to do with him or Maclaren. She would never thrive in the Highlands, and as much as he was attracted to her, she was not what he—or his clan—needed. He’d made a mistake with Grace as a young ma
n, and he couldn’t afford to now.

  Further, she’d been more than clear that she didn’t want this marriage any more than he did, and so hinting toward a reunion with Grace wouldn’t hurt her feelings. It would only hurt her plans.

  Ronan took the stairs and waited for Imogen in his study. A glass of whisky went down in one swallow, and the burn helped center him. He hadn’t seen her all day, not since last evening at dinner when he’d announced they would be attending Grace’s party.

  She had said nothing as her eyes lifted to his, spearing them as forcibly as a pair of daggers. A flurry of different emotions had swept over her face in the span of a few seconds. Surprise, followed by injury, then anger, and finally, enmity. All topped off with a glittering smile. “Of course, darling,” she’d said, taking a sip of her wine before claiming yet another megrim and withdrawing.

  She used them to escape him and the rest of the world far too often. In fact, he’d half expected for her maid to deliver a message that evening saying Imogen could not attend Lady Reid’s due to the affliction. He checked the mantle clock. Half nine. He supposed she might still cancel. The clench in his gut bothered him. He didn’t want to go alone. And not just because he needed Imogen to witness his shameless flirtations with Grace. He simply wanted her on his arm. In his presence.

  And that was why he was in a heap of trouble.

  Ronan finished the rest of his second whisky, turned from the window, and lost his breath. Imogen stood within the doorway, wearing yet another elegant gown. Midnight blue satin caught the firelight in the hearth and glimmered along her well-formed curves. The flare of her hips struck him first, and his hands itched to clasp them and pull her closer. Black lace rose from the low cut of the bodice to her shoulders, giving the appearance of modesty. However, the hints of creamy skin poking through the gaps in lacework were just as seductive as openly bare décolletage. She was gorgeous. Even leveling him with a wintry expression, as she was.

  “Ye look…well,” he said, catching himself before his traitorous tongue let loose with a genuine compliment.

  Icicles formed in her eyes now. “I’m ready.”

  And with that, she turned and left the study.

  It was going to be an interminable evening, and it began in earnest during the carriage ride to Grace’s home. Neither of them spoke, though their eyes clashed, it seemed, at least a dozen times before they arrived. Every time, Ronan bit back the urge to tell her how beautiful she looked, and when Imogen would glance away, he’d still feel an odd sweltering of heat left behind from her eyes. The ice in them had steadily melted between his study and the curb outside Grace’s home, and he blamed the intimacy of the carriage, the silence, and the ungovernable pull between them. He wasn’t the only one suffering.

  Lady Reid’s butler showed them into a salon where at least two dozen other people were gathered, many faces Ronan recognized but did not know. He had no friends in this crowd, and as Grace cut a direct line across the room toward him, her hips swaying and mouth drawing into a pouting sort of grin, he realized that had been her intent.

  “Yer Grace,” she said in a languid sort of sigh, reaching out to him so he could do nothing but take her hand and bow over it. She latched onto his arm before he could release her hand. “I’m so thrilled ye could come after all. How fortunate for me the plans Lady Imogen designed for the two of ye fell through.” She spared Imogen a glance as she turned her body closer to Ronan. “It’s difficult, isnae it, dear, when ye’re new in town? But dunnae fash, I’m sure things will sort themselves out.”

  Imogen accepted the snide comment with a smile. “You’re so kind, Lady Reid.”

  Both Ronan and Grace, it seemed, waited for an answering barb, but none came. Imogen simply took a glass of champagne from a footman and put her lips to the rim, her eyes never once leaving Ronan’s. They were warm and suggestive, and she licked an errant drop of champagne from her bottom lip before sauntering farther into the room without him.

  Another of her acts, he presumed, considering her coldness in the carriage. A part of him missed the real Imogen he’d gotten glimpses of and loathed the fact that he had to play the part of the unfeeling libertine himself. He hated knowing he would have to hurt her more by subjecting her to Grace’s machinations.

  Grace pulled him away, toward a group of men, and introduced him, all the while draping herself on his arm. Ronan stood stiffly, wanting to dislodge himself from her smothering grasp and yet knowing it was necessary not only to endure it but to return her small grins and coy glances. He put in the effort as they made their way around the room, Grace pointedly snubbing Imogen. Even when the guests moved into the dining room, Ronan was seated to Grace’s right while Imogen sat across the table and several seats down.

  As the first few courses were served, Ronan grit his teeth as the man to Imogen’s left engaged her in conversation, his gaze lingering on her with far too much interest. The Marquess of Firth or something. Though it wasn’t just this one man; a few others near her, including women, seemed to be riveted on whatever his fiancée was saying. He grew curious as her companions’ heads nodded and their eyes grew wide but couldn’t hear a damned thing thanks to his placement—and Grace’s voice conversing with the earl seated to her left, across from Ronan.

  “Are ye looking forward to it, Yer Grace?” Grace asked, and after a moment Ronan realized she was addressing him.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  She pouted at having to repeat herself, his attention clearly not on her. He couldn’t force it, even though he had accepted the invitation for the sole purpose of flirting openly with Lady Reid. But his treasonous eyes and ears kept drifting toward Imogen.

  “I asked,” she began in a playful, chastising tone while leaning forward, giving him a bountiful view of her breasts, “if ye were looking forward to returning home, to Maclaren.” Her hand touched his knee under the table, and her fingers started rubbing slow circles over the fabric. “I was telling Lord Granger how beautiful it is there, and how much I miss it. What I wouldnae give to breathe in the Highland air again.”

  She was utterly transparent. Not just with her comment but with her aggressive tactics. Had she been like this before, when they’d been young? He’d been so head over arse in love with her that he’d been blinded. Now, however, he felt none of the overpowering desire that he’d kept trapped in his memory for so long whenever he thought of Grace.

  She was still lovely, perhaps even more so than when he’d lost his heart to her. But the only woman who shined brightly in the dining room right then, the one who seemed to beckon him just by standing in the same room as him, was the petite, tawny-haired lady currently captivating her small, rapt audience.

  “Aye, I miss Maclaren,” he answered, shifting in his seat and reaching for her hand. He should have suggested she come visit at her earliest convenience, but instead, he flattened her fingers under his palm and then gently peeled them free.

  Grace’s expression went stony as he released her hand and moved his leg. She sat back, fussing with her napkin in her lap. Her lips pressed together as she turned her attention toward Imogen.

  “Lady Imogen,” she said brightly. “Ye’re clearly relishing the conversation at that end of the table. Dunnae keep us at this end in the dark.”

  Several guests near to Imogen swung their heads toward their hostess. Imogen took a leisurely sip of her wine and then skipped her eyes to Ronan. He felt a tug in his chest. He shouldn’t have felt so relieved to have her attention on him instead of the two men she’d been engaging at her side. It was absurd. He’d accepted the invitation tonight in order to make Imogen jealous, not to allow himself to feel the same way. The confident poise of her chin revealed she didn’t feel jealous in the least.

  “I was speaking of the work I do in Edinburgh,” she said, “at the charity home, Haven. Have you heard of it, Lady Reid?”

  Grace sat taller, practically purring at the advantageous opening. “The home for wayward girls and their illeg
itimate offspring? Aye, I’ve heard of it. Though I cannae say I understand why ye’d divert yerself with such a place. Associating with women of such low moral character must have an impact on ye after a time, I imagine.”

  Imogen had likely faced any number of ignorant questions over the years, as well as outright hostile ones. Grace’s contained unmasked insult, and its delivery lacked any sort of finesse. Ronan admired his betrothed as she smiled serenely and replied, “I would not be the same without them. They’ve shown me my true purpose.”

  “I thought a lady’s purpose was to please her husband,” Grace said with an arch look at Ronan.

  He had the sudden desire to reject the statement, even if it was counterintuitive to his plans. “It seems a shallow purpose, to please just one person when ye can make a difference to many more who need it.”

  Imogen’s eyes snapped to his in surprise.

  “Truly, Yer Grace?” Lady Reid chuckled, though it was with an edge as she looked around the table at her other guests. “I never would have expected such sentimentality from ye.”

  “It’s hard to expect anything from a person ye dunnae ken very well,” he replied.

  The table fell quiet, Lady Reid silenced at last. She smiled thinly at him before turning to Lord Granger at her right and inquiring how he liked the beef bourguignon.

  Ronan took a deep sip of his wine, frustrated. What in hell was he doing defending Imogen and Haven?

  It had been instinct. Unruly and impulsive and damned stupid. If he’d wanted to push her away, he would have joined Grace in her calculating assault. Perhaps even by saying that no wife of his would be involved in such an organization. But his bloody impulse had betrayed him. It was because in his heart, Ronan knew her involvement at Haven was not a diversion or pastime. It was a labor of love and something most ladies of her station would not understand in the least. It was something that some would fear or criticize. It set Imogen apart from the rest, and he could only admire her for it.